Saturday, November 23, 2019

Goodbye, Angels

  Around the holiday season there are a multitude of things I look forward to: the festive decorations, displaying my slightly obscene collection of 30 plus Nutcrackers, all the calorie-laden sweet treats, time with family and friends, and of course, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. If you are unfamiliar with this little gem, suffice to say it is a phantasmagorical display of the most unearthly, stunning models on the planet rocking feathery, lacey lingerie fanfare accompanied by live music, celebrities, and plenty of bling. As I was Googling to find the date of this year’s fete, my youngest told me she had heard it was cancelled. This was confirmed with my online search and made me utter my quintessential “What the actual FUCK?!” catch phrase out loud. Say it isn’t so.

  Upon further Scooby Doo-style investigating I was able to discover details surrounding this travesty. Apparently ratings last year were at their lowest and Victoria’s Secret had been scrutinized for not including curvy body types and transgender models. There was a “lack of body diversity”. I'm sorry but AND??? It’s about to get heated in here so someone hold my beer….

  Our society has slid down the proverbial shitter and we have become a nation of, in my estimation, complete PUSSIES. Yeah, I said it. The constant need to, God forbid, offend anyone, always be 100% politically correct, to make everyone feel all warm and fuzzy at all costs, to essentially give everyone a shiny participation ribbon for just being alive is making me stabby and wanting to scream. THIS IS NOT HOW LIFE WORKS, PEOPLE!!! Nobody is going to give you a really good job just because you want it or feel like you deserve it. No teacher is going to just give you an A because even though your paper was plagiarized trash you submitted it on time and need an A to keep your GPA up. No credit agency is going to be like “You know, you said you MEANT to pay your bill but the money just wasn’t there so I’m gonna give you a pass.” No dance company or sports team is going to let you perform or play first cast/string if you don’t have the skills and technique to back you up. You aren’t going to get a $20K raise because you are living beyond your means or life for you just plain sucks balls. In real life you have to work hard, pay your dues, be stronger, better, and smarter than the others who are vying for that trophy, job, pay raise, or good grade. Our world has become a playground for complete apathy and entitlement and it’s doing NOBODY any favors. In the words of one of my favorite comedians, Dennis Leary, life sucks get a fucking helmet.

  Those Victoria’s Secret models have not ended up on that runway because they just sauntered up after getting their Venti half-caf macchiato and on a whim they thought, “That looks like fun. I love those feathery angel wings and I have a shit ton of followers on my Insta so I definitely should be up there with Gigi and Kendall!” They may have been born with the facilities—height, lankiness, a distinct look, a thigh gap—but they have been modeling and working their tiny, perfect little asses off for a long time. They train physically to be in top form. If they are one of the select few to be given that Angel status, it is not because they half-assed their way through life or by sheer birthright.

  I will never, ever be as tiny as one of those models. I am 100% okay with the fact that if I wear corduroy pants I can easily start a fire from the excessive inner thigh chafing in a flash. (It's actually illegal for me to travel in the states of Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, New Mexico and the Dakotas during the dry season.) I have never had a 6-pack other than the mess of flesh that resembles a pack of hot dog buns on my back. (Thank you, Spanx.) I often have DBS (Double Boob Syndrome) from my sweater puppies spilling from the top of my bra like that exploded can of Pillsbury biscuits that rolled out of your grocery bag in your trunk in August. Even if I worked out with a trainer 5 days a week, had my jaw wired shut, bought a tapeworm off the internet from a witch doctor in South America, and picked up an $800 a day coke habit, I would never be able to take so much as a step onto that Victoria’s Secret runway. It has never made me mad. This may be an unpopular opinion based on the Era of Entitlement and Participation Ribbons but I don’t want to see anything but those lithe, perfect, possibly part alien goddesses rocking that runway with homely Ed Sheeran crooning his heart out alongside them. There ARE women of all shapes and sizes in this world and I accept and embrace that, albeit in the most non-lesbian way ever. Why ruin a good thing to pacify this hoard of oversensitive jag bags who are boo hooing like the whiney bitches they are?? 

  I have fat friends, transgender friends, friends with acne and cellulite, friends who are proud to wear a bikini in public with less than perfect bodies, gay and straight friends, feminine and masculine friends, friends with scars, friends who are above a size 0. They are cool and real and AMAZING. But guess what? They don’t deserve to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel just because society is screaming for this flat out equality. It’s just fact people, so please don’t start a boisterous witch hunt and start picketing in front of my house with flaming torches, “Angel Lover” signs, and water balloons full of Hellman’s mayonnaise to chuck at my windows. This is part of life, REAL life. Fairness has become blasphemed to derail the definition. “Impartial and just treatment or behavior without favoritism or discrimination”. Sometimes you need to pull up your damn big girl panties, which are likely not from Victoria’s Secret but you probably saved a bunch o’ dough using that Kohl’s cash (go, you!), and GET OVER YOURSELF.

  The outfits those models wear are specifically created for them. These are not cute little lingerie sets in all sizes you will find at the mall on Black Friday. The diamond-ruby-sapphire million dollar bra will be bought up by some Arab tycoon to be worn by one of his 8 wives in the privacy of his own mansion in Dubai, you never had a shot at bargaining with a sales girl and her pink tape measure to “just let you try it on for fun”. It’s a FANTASY. It’s high fashion and opulence, a visually stunning masterpiece. That’s it. End of fucking list. 

  My holiday spirit is a little bit crushed, not unlike (spoiler alert) discovering Santa isn’t real. You have ended a good thing, Victoria’s Secret. Our society of keyboard warriors and protesting pacifists are nothing but big, fat bullies and you have succumb to their trash talk and empty threats. There has been talk that the show may be revamped or not even broadcast on television. I don’t have Kanye’s cell nor a million bucks so I probably won’t score a seat if this spectacle makes its way back to that glorious, Swarovski-encrusted runway. And in all likelihood if you DO choose to alter the lineup to include body diversity and whatever else is de rigueur in the misrepresentation of society, count on your ratings dropping even lower because this misshapen, middle aged chick will NOT be tuning in. 
An Angels Fan Girl Whose Wings Have Been Crushed

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Dating Redux

  Some time ago I visited the phenomenon of online dating and made commentary surrounding the adventure. Whelp I’m back at it and this go ‘round is not so much an adventure but more like being on Naked and Afraid for 7 months straight with no rescue crew in sight, minimal provisions, warding off wild local animal species with nothing but my wits and my tits. I am questioning the evolution of mankind at this point based on my most recent experiences trying to date and find a compatable guy in my life.

Read the fine print. I have a lengthy profile bio and it’s pretty specific what I am looking for and what I am not. Yet the influx of those who buck the system or are potentially illiterate enough to bypass this is ludicrous. Geographic location, age, children, musical preferences, favorite foods and drinks, things that are my jam are ALL IN THERE. If you come at me with a cheesy pick up line and the obvious mental capacity of a Russett potato it’s going to be a hard pass.

Age. I have dated younger and we can get the Molly roast out of the way right now. My parents once told me my rental agency might think I was running a daycare. My mom offered to buy the guy some Hot Wheelz to play with. I now know better. And though as adorable as a Capuchin monkey who sits on your shoulder for a photo op in Cozumel, the young boys aren’t for me. It’s comically apparent how a guy speaks to you indicating his age. Calling me a MILF or saying you want to be my boy toy is some rudimentary frat boy lingo. Lay off the Porn Hub and come back once you’ve read some literature and don’t open a conversation with asking if I would sit on your face.

Pretending. I have been at this neverending rodeo long enough to see right through proclamations of intent geared towards what a man wants me to believe. “I’m not really sure if I want kids.” “It’s totally cool if you don’t like country music.” “I’m looking for a relationship not just a physical hookup”. Ummm, you specifically state you are DFB (down for babies), have a cowboy hat in 9 of your 10 pics, and are shirtless and making duck face at the gym which is code for “Let’s bang, baby.” I was once married to a slick, used car salesman type of guy. I can read your transparency clearer than a wet t-shirt contest in a monsoon.

Distance. Even dating someone who lives 30 miles away can be an obstacle yet somehow men think it’s reasonable to message me from Iowa, California, Minnesota, Hawaii, Florida, New York, etc. Even IF one of us traveled many miles for a date, then what? My yearning to be with you is going to be some Disney fairytale shit that I will just leave my friends, kids, job, and life as I know it for a ride off into the sunset with you? I’ve actually met some really great guys but then we have to go back to our respective states. I’m not moving, you’re not moving. It’s unfortunate the well of local ladies has dried up or you have gone through them quicker than a reformed Keto fanatic at an all you can eat pasta buffet but let’s be realistic here.

Humor. I’m a hard sell on this. You can’t fake funny like a porn star fakes an orgasm, you’ve either got game or you don’t. I need sarcasm and an edge, Dad jokes aren’t gonna cut it. And if we throw a penchant for Jesus and telling me it makes you uncomfortable to curse this is just not going to work. I’m cool with JC but you are also a little bit of a fucking pussy because a well-placed swear word can be golden. 

Dick pics. Yes, it really IS a thing. Guys send these in an abrupt, unsolicited manner often. Sometimes with an accompanying live action video. One minute you’re telling me how your mama raised you right and you’re cooking a gourmet dinner and then BAM it’s a baloney pony party and you’re telling me you’re covered in lube and wish I was there. Charming. Not sure what your mom did for a living but that was one crazy homeschool class. I maintain that functionally with what you have is one thing, visually I am not jumping through my phone for the chance to ride your Magic Man Meat. Put your pants back on, your pasta sauce is burning on the stove, Chef Boyardong.

Vocabulary. I can be a grammar Nazi and will let a few spellcheck fails pass. I know guys have fat fingers and texting sometimes doesn’t convey their level of tools in the shed. There’s a distinct difference between a couple of your/you’re mishaps and just all out ignorance though. Writing an entire profile bio with zero punctuation, saying “exedera” (is that a new headache medication or a revelation that you never made it to the spelling bee in 5thgrade?),  repeatedly messaging “Your sexy”, or just complete moronic sentence structure is inexcusable. I don’t know if your mom dropped you on your head but here’s a helmet to avoid further concussions and please visit a library STAT.

Lines. UR sexy. Did anyone tell you you’re a MILF? I can show you things guys your age could never do. You should come over and sit in my hot tub and relax. Come spit on me. …I can’t make this shit up. First of all, Doogie Howser, I will break you in half and you might not even have hair on your sack yet. And secondly, your ignorance will be far more appreciated if you stay within your own species range--young, dumb, and full of....far less brain cells.

Ghosting. Ironically this is the catch phrase epidemic that literally haunts me, making the notion pretty damn accurate. You message someone, there’s interest, the communication is really good, maybe you text or even talk on the phone. You meet for a date and the conversation and humor flow effortlessly, there’s physical attraction and chemistry. You’re completely on the same page. Then NOTHING. Texts stop, no messaging. Umm,  pretty sure I wasn’t hallucinating you calling me your new best friend and I definitely didn’t shit my pants at that cozy little Italian place so what the actual FUCK?? Recently called a guy out for this BS and he said “It’s not that I’m not interested in you but my ex girlfriend came moseying back so…SORRY CHARLIE.” Like the mother fucking Starkist tuna commercial. Really? It’s a straight up land of douche baggery and I am literally swimming in it.

Kids and babies. My girls are older. I am not interested in having, raising, hanging out with, or spending the weekends with wee ones. At my age I maybe could still conceive but the baby would for sure have antlers. And far be it from me to crush someone’s dream of being a daddy some day. So don’t pretend you “don’t really know if it’s in the cards for me to be a father” if it is. The light at the tunnel is bright for me and that selfish me time is right around the corner. You know what's NOT right around the corner for me? Diapers and sippy cups. Sorry not sorry.

About those photos.. I love that you have been all over the world and are yearning for adventure and more stamps in your passport. You climb mountains, love the Cubs, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, your frat bros, your three cats (umm why?), your Harley, skydiving, and your mom. But unless you plan on bringing all of those things to a first date, you probably should stick to photos that actually include YOU. Actually thanks for sharing the cat triplets with me because it’s going to be a no for me, dog. More than one shirtless flex pics from the gym, looking wasted with a cig hanging from your mouth while you’re one tequila away from drowning at the swim up bar in Cabo, posing with animal pelts, police officers, stippers, a bong, or your token pink vagina beanie from the protest are not exactly lady boner-inducing. I would like to see who you are. If you are bald, don’t have 17 pics with hats and one grainy one in a group photo of you with the shiny noggin. If you are not exactly at your fighting weight, I gather the montage of you with Sun In highlights and that Pearl Jam concert T is not in any way current. And why are all your pics of you with sunglasses? Do you have a glass eye? Were you involved in some crazy scuffle on Pirate Night on that Disney cruise and can’t find your patch, Matey? Do you regret that guyliner tattoo when you were super into Poison? 
I’ve heard stories on the flip side of women rolling up much older and heavier to those first dates so I know women can be guilty as well. Just don’t post a stock photo from the 1987 Chippenale’s calendar of a shirtless, hairless, super tan guy shaving WITH A BASKET OF KITTENS and expect me to take you for real. 

Call me…maybe. If you throw out your number or demand mine within three exhanged sentences you seriously need to calm your tits. If we like each other we’ll get there. I’ve been burned too many times by misfits of the dating world sending ignorant, rude, mean, and presumptuous texts. I’m not giving you my number, my Snapchat, my Facebook, or my Instagram because I A) don’t want Netflix and chill shots of your schlong watching the Bears game, B) I don’t believe that your membership is LITERALLY expiring today and this will be the only way we can communicate, and C) I DON’T EVEN FUCKING KNOW YOU YET. There is a protocol to even online courtship and you’re acting like that asshole kid in the gift shop at Disney who needs a nap and is flipping his shit over a $45 Pluto stuffed animal.

I literally don't even know which way to swipe anymore...

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Zero Fucks

I care way too much about what others think. It’s not a new phenomenon, I’ve been hardwired this way since as long as I can remember. I worry, fret, overanalyze, fear, fumble, and ultimately talk myself out of doing pretty much everything that requires exposing my inadequacies, whether real or self-perceived. What a fucking pussy.

Life has dealt me quite the load of BULLSHIT as of late. It’s almost comical how many things keep happening to me that are in no way, shape, or form, good things. They fucking suck. I have read The Secret. I meditate. I wake up every morning and think very Oprah-esquely about things I am grateful for. Then someway or somehow, a tsunami of horse shit comes my way on the daily. I am going to have a bunch of t-shirts made that read “Are You Fucking KIDDING me?” in various colors, like those days of the week panties they sell for little girls. Because every God damn day I find myself saying this phrase. Repeatedly.

I have become the biggest walking cliché, through no fault of my own. I am officially a Starter Wife. Man is married to wife who raises kids incredibly well for 18 years. Man decides “Ehh, this really isn’t my bag anymore.” Man walks out on family. Man moves into a pimp-ass Chicago apartment 35 miles away from his kids for more than double his mortgage. Man finds woman 18 years his junior to travel the world with. Why is it that if you have a penis it’s perfectly acceptable to have a “mid-life crisis”? Just because many guys are the breadwinners it’s somehow become a sad norm. Is there a little timer in your balls that goes off to remind you your time is up being a family man? Ding! Ding! Ding! It’s been (insert number between 18 and 25) years! Time to abandon scene and seek out an absurdly younger woman with a base-level IQ and perkier tits. Oh she loves you alright, but not for the bulge in your pants you think it’s for.

Imagine if women suddenly had the urge to say, “Screw this mom shit. Deuces! I’m out!” and after decades of marriage and child rearing, emptied out their joint savings account, booked a one-way ticket to Vegas, and shacked up with Trevor, fresh off the Magic Mike tour. It would most definitely not be considered a mid-life crisis. We’d be labeled as bat-shit crazy whores who have lost their damn minds. No rationalizing it, no excuse because the mom job is a damn hard one with no pay, little benefits, and belligerent bosses (ungrateful offsrping). I don’t know a single mother who would ever do this. Why? Because we are selfless. We are giving. We are the punching bags for all the ups and downs of the family because everyone knows we will still be there and love them. And the men that walk out because, “Boo hoo! I’m not happy anymore!” are the really pussies in this scenario.

There are some crazy things that have happened to me, details I’ve discovered, ordeals I don’t know how I’ve survived. Sometimes when I tell people about it their response is, “You can’t even make shit like this up!!” Nope. Welcome to my life. I know I am building character, getting stronger, growing from this, preparing myself to rise like a damn phoenix from the ashes, blah blah blah. (Cue Gloria Gaynor song.) This shit has hurt me, scarred me, made me question who I am, made me insecure. But in my little epiphany moment while I was squatting at the gym hit me yesterday, I thought, “Wait a minute. I have had no choice in facing all this shit but I survived it. I hated it but I’m here. So why am I such a freaking PUSSY about things that aren’t so hard??”

I’m not “there” yet. I’m far from brave most days. I cry, I swear, I slam a lot of doors. But I feel like a gorilla pounding it’s chest like, “Bitch, BRING IT! Is that ALL you’ve got?!” to life. Fucking A. I’ve been called names, walked out on, accused of being selfish, had my gas shut off, been sued for non-payments, had a car taken away, had personal property stolen, and I might lose my house. If I think of all of it at once it’s a LOT. Holy shit.

So I’m a Starter Wife. Big fucking deal. There’s a lot of God damn WARRIOR WOMEN I know in this club. We are better, smarter, classier, more beautiful, more respected, and tougher than any man and his “mid-life crisis”. Perky tits and 20-something bodies are temporary, honey. Let me lighten that bulge by taking half of what you’re chasing in his pants, thank you very much. I know spelling is hard for you but it’s called M-A-I-N-T-E-N-A-N-C-E.

Moral of the story, you’ve got to give zero fucks to survive. I may get struck by lightning, Hurricane Harvey may turns its course and somehow travel to Plainfield, Illinois, or maybe even a real-live sharknado may knock me down, but I’ll still be here, standing up every single time, rocking my “Are You Fucking KIDDING Me?” shirt. I’ll be waiting on the porch, looking out for the repo man. Watch your purse if you stop by, he’s got sticky fingers

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Lloyd Dobler

My social media feed is blowing up with pretty much everyone but me promoting the living shit out of something. How ironic is it that I have a degree in Merchandising Management but I really despise trying to sell anything? There is nothing I believe in strongly enough I have ever come across in my life that has made me balls-to-the-wall, gung-ho about promoting it for others to buy/buy into/help me sell/make me want to wear a t-shirt advertising it/get tattooed on my butt cheek. I don't care who tells me their best friend who was a doctor/lawyer/engineer quit their lucrative career to sell {insert item for sale here} and is literally wiping their ass with hundred dollar bills they make so much bank.  I am telling you, I DO NOT CARE.

Remember Lloyd Dobler in the movie "Say Anything"? He pretty much sums it up.

"I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that."

I have mad respect for my friends who find their zen being on conference calls and listening to the presidents of their companies get sales boners over world domination of their product. Holy shit, you're featured in Oprah Magazine and made it to her "My Favorite Things" list?? My God that's almost as cool as Kim and Kanye naming their baby after you!! Pretty sure that's as bad-ass as being referred to as the 11th commandment----Thou shalt buy my shit as it has the power to make your pores smaller than a baby/your ass as tight as a constipated Olympic gymnast/your fiesta party dip creamier than milk fresh from a cow teat.

I will buy your magic cream. I will marvel at how ripped your abs are. I will serve your "Heaven In My Mouth" spinach dip and give you props. But please, for the love of all that is good, Baby Jesus, and all the Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs in the world, don't ask me about joining your team to sell it, deal?

I am so super happy you reached Triple Violet Moonstar Level. Taste the rainbow, bitch! You earned a trip for the first inaugural trip to teach a livestream of your fitness class from the MOON?? Neil Armstrong the HELL out of that cardio! You've been awarded a herd of pink unicorns to pull your sleigh full of team members to your national convention in Vegas? Yippee ki yay, motherfucker! I am so proud of you. Pinkie swear.

I know, I know,  you're going to tell me I'm "crazy for not taking advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity as the company's growth skyrockets at the speed of light". That fast, huh? Is there some reinvention of the wheel that's happening here I'm unaware of? Don't I LIKE money? Don't I crave success? Don't I like pink unicorns??????

I like money. Success is truly a personal definition. For example today my success lies in the fact that I remembered to switch the laundry to the dryer before it smelled like sour milk. Tomorrow my success might solely be dependent on me changing my underwear. And hell yes, pink unicorns are my JAM. But to participate in your prescribed path to success I will have to network and call people on the phone and sit through conference calls while I sprain my optic nerve from rolling my eyes and go to meetings where people cheer like televangelists and have to post shit on my Facebook page about how much said product has enhanced/changed/rebirthed my soul every damn day. Maybe you didn't read the fine print in the contract for a friendship with me.

I HATE talking on the phone. I'd rather go to the gyno, oral surgeon, and get a mammogram every day for a year than have to physically CALL people. #truestory

I like working out. But sometimes I like naps and not giving a shit. The latter is mostly true as of late.
If I drink enough water, don't drink a bottle of wine before bed, and get a decent night's sleep my skin looks pretty good for this middle-aged mom. Sorry but there is no magic cream, serum, patch, goo, mask, or face taser that is going to magically make me wake up and make me look like I'm 25 again. Trust me honey, I have tried them ALL. Heredity, hydration, and using a hell of a lot of sunscreen are what's up.

I own every kind of seasoning, sauce, stone bake wear, sterling silver, nylon carryall tote, organic  foot cream, Tupperware, face and body potion, and conflict free plastic bangle made from repurposed Trapper Keepers which every sale of buys a third world teenager an iPhone 3 that only texts in Japanese and plays "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley on repeat. If I run out, I know where to find you.

I am known for saying exactly what people think but maybe are too afraid to say. I enjoy cursing and scathing sarcasm. A whole God damn lot. I can refer to my kids as demon spawn but then marvel at their academic success the next day. I LOVE when people enjoy my sense of humor. But guess what's gonna happen if my social media is jammed with "check out Molly's biceps/positivity/placenta face mask/colon blow flat tummy tea"? I will no longer be the Molly you know and either love or hate. That's not worth money or pink unicorns or even 12-pack abs to me.

You do you, I'll do me. And right now, it's time for a cardio-free nap.

Friday, November 20, 2015

You Need to Chill

Every damn year the anticipation of the FIRST SNOWFALL renders lifelong mid-westerners panicked and shitting their pants. We are currently expecting, wait for it, 2-5 inches of snow tomorrow! AND possibly 1-3 more the following day! Stop the presses, slap my ass, and call me Shirley. SNOW?? In the end of November?? Blasphemy!!!!

This is Illinois. Unless you can show me your boarding pass from last week and are rocking a savage tan to prove you are from Miami, you need to really get it together. We have four seasons. They are not always the same length, they are not always perfect. But there ALWAYS is a winter. And what happens in winter?? It gets cold and it SNOWS!

I am fully aware that tomorrow there will be barren shelves at the grocery store. Every single person on the roads will completely forget how to drive in the snow. The news in going to be non-stop storm watch. It will pre-empt every TV show. Because as a society we have grown accustomed to being updated every 3 minutes about events big and small and pointless. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat with be loaded with cozy sweater pics and snowflake emojis. I saw an entire family excitedly looking at new shovels and taking turns posing with them at Target. Seriously, you pansy-ass bitches need to pull up your big girl panties get a grip.

When I was a kid it snowed. It snowed a LOT. I am from West Michigan. Winter does not fuck around up there. People shoveled, kids wore snowsuits and mittens and hats. We played outside for HOURS and school was never cancelled because it was too cold. What kind of raging bullshit is that? Too cold? And suddenly we have to name every significant POTENTIAL storm that might pass over our city. I believe this one is called Bella. Oh my fucking god, REALLY?

I am going to possibly put a snow scraper in my car. I will probably wear boots. I will be drinking my Pinot Noir because it keeps me warm and creates enough of a buffer between my annoyance and the barrage of Snowpocalypse nonsense. Let me give you a little lesson in reality. As with anything in life, 2-5 inches is really nothing to post about on Facebook. If we're talking 9-12 inches then give me a call. But until Winter Storm Magic Mike rolls in, shut it.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Can I Have Your Number?

Every single time I've ever made absolute statements in my life saying "That will NEVER happen", it always fucking happens.
"I'll never weigh more than 130 pounds!"
"He'd never cheat on me!"
"I'll never workout less than 5 days a week!"
"I'll never shit myself while wearing sweatpants and no underwear while walking the dog!"
"I'll never have to see what's out there in the world of dating because I'm MARRIED! I can't even IMAGINE!"
Well someone should have shook me like a snow globe and told me to shut my pie hole because when the Divorce Papers Fairy pulled into the driveway (wearing a short sleeve dress shirt and clip on boy's tie), I knew those words should not have left my big, fat mouth.

I'd love to be able to just savor every second of being single, of having the freedom to do what I want, to revel in me time, to write in one of my many journals. To enroll in a cupcake decorating class and 3 book clubs while I let my bush grow out to look like I'm straddling one of the Jackson 5. But the reality is this: I don't want to be single. I have been free to do whatever I want because nobody has given a shit as long as the fridge is full and laundry is done for YEARS. Every time I go to Barnes and Noble I wander into that fucking journal section and somehow end up with three more, all with inspirational quotes about "finding your path" or "strength comes from within" or "who needs a man when you have a decent vibrator". I HATE writing in journals. My hand cramps up, the ink smears from my left-handedness dragging along the page, and I feel pressure to be writing something as prolific as the Malala quote imprinted on the $29.95 leather cover. And I personally like a well-manicured beaver because this is not 1987, not because I expect anyone to see it. If thongs were the panties of choice back then, there's no way bitches would be able to shove all that muff fur up there.

So I am TRYING to date. Trying to find someone who meets maybe 27% of the criteria I have in a suitable companion. I was aiming higher but have had to bring my standards down because there IS no fucking Prince Charming. There is no Mr. Right. I'll settle for "Mr. Ehhh, Why Not?" at this point. There just aren't a lot of men who are single at this stage of the game. Hold on, let me rephrase, there aren't a lot of moderately attractive men who don't mind that I'm (almost) divorced, have 2 kids who occupy most of my time and energy, and live in suburbia away from any fun city options for going out. Starting to feel like I'm going to lead a life of making fleece pillows for church craft fairs.

Even my friends have tried to monitor the single man scene in their small pool of guys they know.
"Oh my gosh, he's the NICEST GUY!"
Translation: He lives with his mom and favors mock turtlenecks from Kohls. And maybe plays with Legos.
"He's not THAT short."
Translation: If I wear heels he can officially use my tits as a travel pillow.
"He's really cute!"
Translation: He's missing teeth.
"His hair is kind of sporty."
Translation: Bald.
"He's kind of in transition."
Translation: Still married but will be willing to take you on as an extra-curricular activity.
"He's a self-motivated entrepreneur."
Translation: Broke as fuck. And smokes a shit ton of weed.

I joined a dating site. Go ahead, make fun. I would. Most of the guys that have similar interests, age range, and situations as mine look like child molesters and are 55-60. Anyone that is hot and early 30's or younger I automatically red flag. There has to be some MILF bucket list they want to fulfill and I'm not about to be the one to do it. Any guy in his 20's usually has to brag about the size of his meat stick after the initial, "Hey, you've got beautiful eyes!" opening line. Really? I've got some needs but Jesus H., I am not THAT desperate, Long Dong Silver. I am leary of men who have never had children. Because the "not sure" about having kids comment most definitely means they want someone who is down to eventually give them offspring. In case we haven't officially met, hi, I'm Molly and I HATE babies. There are very few men who say they are divorced, have kids, and are my age. And frankly, I suspect many of them actually are still married. That tan line looks pretty fresh on that ring finger, SinglStud69. I'll give you an A for effort though.

Not waiting for any knight in shining armor to ride in on his noble steed. Shit, at this point I'll take Paco the exterminator as long as he can show me his last 3 pay stubs, proof of citizenship, and he speaks decent English. Until then I'll be at Hobby Lobby buying 15 yards of fleece because it's on sale this week.

Saturday, August 29, 2015


Yoga is officially a "thing" now. Like self-serve frozen yogurt. Or Crocs. Or anal bleaching. I suppose it's not for everyone but I'll tell you what. EVERYONE makes you feel like you are the leper of society if you aren't doing it.
Everyone: "Oh my God you SOOOO have to try yoga, girl! It will change your life!"
Me (silently): ["Shut up, you granola-munching hipster...."]
Everyone: "Yoga will TOTALLY bring peace to your heart. You need it with all you've been through!"
Me (again silently): ["I will find you when you are putting your $14 organic Whole Foods mushrooms into the back of your Range Rover some night and bludgeon you with a jar of Nutella."]
Everyone: "Only the lepers of our society don't do yoga!"
Me (grrrrrrrrr....): ["Fine. I wouldn't want to be a leper. Or a camel-toe sporting sweat machine in those ridiculous yoga short/panties..."]

I tried a yoga class once. It was probably ten years ago at my mega-gym. The instructor was a sprightly young man with ripped arms and legs who was probably all of 20 years old. I think he was wearing a cloth diaper that smelled like patchouli. I believe he might have just completed a hemp milk enema cleanse before teaching because he was WAY too fucking excited and seemed to be weightless as he balanced on one hand with his legs wrapped like a jacked up pretzel. ONE FUCKING HAND!!!!!!!! He encouraged breathing and peaceful tranquil minds but all I could think of was "This is motherfuckingimpossible and I think I'm going to cry." So I cried. And was mortified that I could not do "crow". I was the only one who thought this pose was impossible. The entire class rested their knees on the outside of their elbows and just popped their feet off the ground like it was a stroll in the park. Not me. I was a squatting liability as my wrists buckled and I fell like a sack of potatoes. I never went back.

But yet here I am many years later, a week into yoga classes and I haven’t quit. I still completely suck and fall out of everything with the grace of a drunk on rollerblades. I am a ballet teacher for God’s sake. I have a decent amount of balance engrained in me. Apparently when you take yoga, you throw all that shit out the door. You are basically going to have to start the hell over, like you are learning to walk. 

As a newbie to anything I am not 100% sure of that requires trying to be calm as my muscles are stretch-raped, I prefer to stand in the back. This will assure a few things. First of all, the restroom is right there. If I need refuge because I am going to vomit, shit my pants, cry, or simply run away from the instructor, I’ve got my out. Secondly, I have no idea what in holy hell most of these moves are based on their yoga names. Front Row Girls (FRG’s) know what’s up. As I wander sheepishly to the back some are chilling out in handstands and headstands in silence. Even if I decided I really, REALLY love yoga and start hemp enema cleanse club, I cannot fathom just hanging out in inverted vagina camel or whatever it’s called just for fun. Nope.

My favorite cursing dance mom bestie, Tiffany, and I talk in regular voices which is an understood evil in the yoga studio. (After I week we UNDERSTAND, we just choose to talk.) If you can’t chill on your head you are supposed to sit or lie down and I guess focus on your breathing.  Oh and NOT TALK. And let’s talk about that breathing for a second, can we? When you deeply inhale and exhale I don’t find any reason to make extra noise. If I closed my eyes I felt like I was on a whale watching tour with all the vibrating, humming, Orca noises emanating from the moist sweat cave. Shut. Up. Do I see a doula in here massaging your taint so you don't tear when you deliver your baby right here at the yoga studio? No??? Zip it, Sea World.

This is not hot yoga, as Bikram junkies will tell you. I have so far not tempted this discipline. The only thing I do at 105 degrees is get Ebola and die. But my class IS hot. It's 90 degrees and when you are even merely sitting in the Amazon jungle humidity, you will sweat your tits off. There is steam coming from a little vaporizer in the back. There is steam coming off of the downward dogging participants. The little foam blocks they give you for remedial yoga newbies who can't balance or touch their toes are made of semi-molten lava. Within 10 minutes I am glistening like I was dipped in a vat of Land O Lakes. It is impossible for me to just grab my ankle as I'm upside down on one leg and it keeps slipping from my greasy fingers like the last chicken wing from a fat person under the couch. I'm sure if someone took a video of this part of the yoga train wreck it would have gone viral on YouTube by now. Though I've brought a full-length mat towel with gripping koom-ba-ya design painted on, my sweaty hog stubs keep slipping like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. By the end of class the entire room is dripping wet like a gas station bathroom minus the used condoms on the floor.

Yoga music is kind of like spa massage meets Kidz Bop Enya. Kind of tranquil, super hippie, mostly making me show my "What is THIS shit??" face every time a new song begins. Because of the no-talking and the quiet moments we are all supposed to be savoring in our bodies and minds, all other noises are magnified. Farting is totally acceptable in there. You release that ass bomb while you moan out that exhale, Orgasma Queen of the Savsana!!! I refuse to go there. Ever since I received my EQV (Excessive Queef Violation) back in Pilates in 2004, I tend to be an ass clencher. Not a peep from me below the waist, I can promise you that.

Our instructor the other day had us transitioning between movements so fast that between me trying to read my Rosetta Stone Yoga Lingo for Dummies while wiping the pouring sweat from my eyes, I realized we were now facing backwards. Fuck. Now I was an FRG. What an uninspiring view those head standing fart machines had now. I'm sure it was like being the sober one at a party and watching the wasted ones stumble and slur. I wanted to just lie there but the pressure was on.

And just like that, there it was....My nemesis. That God damn CROW. Mentally I was trying not to have PTSD flashbacks to One-Handed Diaper Boy and that day in class so many years ago. Breathe...breathe... I was not going to be self defeated. I would balance up there even if for a mere second! Or..... I was going to totally over tilt forward, twist my wrist, slam my knee on the ground, and almost hit my head.
"You cannot succeed unless you sometimes fall a few times."
The Jedi master was trying to lighten my load of shame. And how heavy it was....

Someday I WILL be able to crow the HELL out of myself. I will be able to stand on one leg and not keel over like someone stole my walker. I will be able to say "Namaste" at the end of class and not feel like a complete fraud. I will be able to do the backbend wheel without feeling like my implants are going to shoot out and knock that humidifier over. I just might even want to consider being a Front Row Girl. But don't expect to see this top-heavy blond in a headstand. I can only clench so much before my butter sweat hemp milk enema queef gets me arrested.